Because it's true - missing scenes
by Emma Lynch
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is deeply troubled, since he is perched upon the horns of another dilemma. He cannot tell Molly Hooper that his words (ILY)were redundant, since he now wants nothing more than for her to know of the love he has kept hidden for so very long.His problem, you see, is not the explanation of his sister's conduct, but rather the explanation of his own.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is a partner story (missing scene) to my previous tale, 'Because it's true', I was aware that the crux of the story (for many) and of the coffin scene in TFP was how Molly and Sherlock managed to build their relationship back together before the cheery greeting depicted at the end of that episode. In my story, the premise is that Sherlock Holmes has always loved Molly Hooper from the moment they met in the lab, seven years previous to this, and that he has disguised his true heart to preserve a childhood dread of showing attraction, emotion and love for another, for fear the object of his affections would be snatched away (like Victor had been).**

 **Thus, not only does Sherlock have to explain to Molly what happened at Sherrinford, he also has to explain how he has always felt about her.**

 **If he is strong enough.**

 **Did I say 'missing scene'? There may be (are) FIVE chapters here, but I think he has a lot of explaining to do...**

* * *

 **It wasn't love at first sight - not exactly. It was a certain familiarity; a knowledge or an understanding. Like… hello there! It's you. It's you...**

 _ **It's going to be you. (Anon)**_

* * *

 **I.**

He's back from the Old Bailey around six (earlier than anticipated, therefore I'm caught on the hop - no tea in the pot, no heating on, no food in the fridge… all the domestic crap I used to do in Baker Street with him, and here… with Mary) and he hesitates in my tiny entrance hall. I hate that.

"Sherlock, just chuck your coat under the stairs. I've told you, treat the place like your own." I am busy in the kitchen, spooning sugars and stirring; sweetening things for him, mollycoddling ( _thanks Mary, I know)_.

After a second, he searches out a chair (deducing the one I'd been sitting in first - still the guest then) and falls heavily into it, coat still fastened - and only then do I note how tired he looks.

"Your cleaning lady is from Kentish Town?"

"No, Elephant and Castle."

He sighs, knuckles white as he closes his shadowed eyes and leans back in the chair.

"Then she's not going to pay the loan back."

"Wha- how did you know I'd lent her-"

"The road is up by the pawnbrokers on Brunswick Street. She hadn't enough to get back her brother's tools. She won't be paying you back John, since you are significantly lower down the list than he."

I don't bother asking for clarification, reaching instead for the takeaway menus.

"Indian or Pad Thai?" I ask. "Which one is it?"

And it's like nothing is different, but everything has changed.

 **~x~**

"He was acquitted then?" Sherlock appears not to be listening, but absently poking small pockets of rice around his dish. The sudden vacuum of my words does actually then prompt his attention.

"Neville St. Clair," I add, for further clarity, throwing him a lifeline. The flicker of the telly casts a cold blueness across his features, highlighting an emptiness I was reluctantly becoming used to.

"The trial… today?"

Sherlock engages himself, but I know he has been miles away from me, my little flat and our shared supper time.

"Indeed. Certainly by law at least." He pauses, making to provide me with an interaction, a quid pro quo for him staying here while his home is being rebuilt. "He had, beyond flouting the begging laws of the land, committed no serious crime." Pausing again. "An acquittal from his misused wife, however, may not be as forthcoming. His real trial is yet to come."

Sherlock stands then, and then nods goodnight, making his way to my spare room where he will toss and turn and attempt to protect the entropy of his damaged heart until morning, when he will attempt to go about his day like a person who is truly living.

But he's not.

(And I should know.)

But, "Goodnight Sherlock," is all I say.

For now.

 **~x~**

 **II.**

Hilary Hope.

Her picture is everywhere, including the front page of the paper I am reading before the very eyes of my friend, and the flickering screen we keep on to make things … less awkward.

Green, sparking; lashes curled and beauteous, framing eyes that are cold, vulpine, empty.

"She's hiding something." I care little, but I know it's a case he has been engaged for. A glance across the _Frosted Shreddies_ convinces me he cares all the less.

"Don't you think?"

Sherlock Holmes, great thinker, logicist, card-carrying member of the ` _solve the puzzle, hate the people`_ society blinks over his (untouched) cereal and I simultaneously want to punch him and hold him, and smash everything in the room around us both.

"Most definitely," replies he, glacial eyes suddenly illuminating me with everything that has been missing; everything that was gone.

"I know the scene was compromised, as does she." He pauses, glancing across his phone (millionth time) and smiling hopelessly at my daughter, who laughs and laughs (she adores him. Of course she does). "I need to speak to the Sergeant on duty… Wilkins? Willis?"

Rosie rolls across her blanket and Sherlock stands, reaching for her unicorn toy.

How could he forget? How could he not know?

"She prefers the bee," I say, decisively, before adding, "and it was Wilson."

 **~x~**

 **What if I said I never got over you. What if I said my mind is aching with every sheer thought of you. (bfreefierce)**

 **III.**

Five weeks since Sherrinford and there are four significant cases, layered over, beneath and around each other; interwoven between the convoluted, complex and multifarious layers of the brain of Sherlock Holmes.

He keeps endlessly varied hours and I have given up being the sympathetic host in favour of leaving leftovers in the fridge and tea in the caddy. He sweeps through, like a draft of air, ruffling my newspaper or Rosie's mobile, juxtaposing frenetic energy within the steady, sonorous repetition of our washing, dressing, feeding, sleeping: it's almost like we are standing still in the eye of a hurricane.

Texting, reading, speaking via phone and Skype,(and possibly carrier pigeon) to the agencies he is dealing with; a mercurial conduit between client, barrister, police and witness - never slowing or ceasing until the inevitable collapse into a chair and coverage with a blanket.

It was Thursday morning when Mycroft called me at the surgery.

"You're concerned." No preamble, no cursory greeting, just that.

"Hello, Mycroft," I counter, shaking my head at the receptionist hovering at the door, which she closes discreetly. "How are the nightmares?"

I feel the sardonic quirk that doubles for a smile with Mycroft Holmes across the wires, but I have a deal more empathy with him these days, so I concede.

"Yes, yes I _am_ concerned about your brother. He's a bloody walking automaton: a deducing robot who thinks if he solves one more, he can stop being eaten up by his pain."

It came out more harshly than I intended, since I no longer feel the need to punish Mycroft for imagined wrongings of his baby brother, because nothing needs to be imagined anymore, and I now know what sacrifice can look like.

"I see." His tone is calm, but I know him well enough now not to take it as an insult. "You haven't spoken to him." He tells rather than asks, and I pause, heart hammering in the manner of a tortured soul being given the chance to unload his anxieties to another.

"Not yet," I say.

Another pause.

Doctor Hooper is away, currently visiting her mother. She is taking an extended absence from work and is … unreachable."

Well done Molly I muse; going off-grid from the British Government is quite an achievement. Then he surprises me.

"I can't say I blame her," murmurs Mycroft Holmes, and I smile. _No, nor I._

"John," he continues, his tone more focused, more coming-to-the-crux-of-the-matter, "you are more than aware of the mistakes that have been made, of the poor judgements and appalling miscalculations that have _moulded Sherlock_ ...made him what he is today."

I nod pointlessly, since I don't trust myself to speak.

"It is of the greatest importance to me that something of use must come from our diabolically managed childhood and the resultant events you had the misfortune to witness at Sherrinford."

The receptionist reappears at my door but turns away swiftly after a glance at my face through its glass panel.

"Something," he continues, "that has been laid bare and exposed by my sister simply cannot be allowed to be disregarded and become subject to further concealment by my brother."

"Molly Hooper."

"Just so."

Our words hang there, suspended, fizzling with potential energy. It is as if he and I are standing over the operating table, paddles in hand, awaiting the signal to shock a heart back into life.

"Talk to him, John," he says simply, and I know it is not a demand but a request, and respect him for that.

 **~x~**


	2. Chapter 2

**IV.**

 **I've found it easier to pretend that you don't feel anything than to express your emotions and find yourself obliged to explain them.**

 **~The Book Cook**

* * *

"You're going to get hurt either way."

I could have made a welcome banner with my rehearsed opening gambit so many hours had I to plan it, but it turned out that a verbal greeting was enough as my friend walked into my front porch. Honestly, I can still see the perfect 'o' made by his mouth as he stood, key in hand and scarf askew from the fresh breeze that had captured our city that evening.

I jostled my daughter on my hip. Calculated maybe, but I knew he couldn't ignore her or bark off my words so easily. She was my accomplice in the wrangling of Sherlock Holmes, just as her mother had been.

"You heard me," I countered, as if he had replied. "Come in Sherlock, and sit in the chair. I need to talk to you." And the look in his eyes (shock, fear, reluctance, rebellion) were suddenly swept away by a bizarrely grateful collapse into recipience.

"What took you so long?" was his only response.

 **~x~**

(Sherlock)

He's started sleeping again and I'm pleased for that. John has a lifelong responsibility for Rosamund and he needs every ounce of strength and resilience for such a task.

And then there's me.

John is a carer. He is a doctor and by the nature of his career choice and his truly ingrained natural disposition, he wants to find you, care for you and fix you (in that order) and if that is not possible, he is less than agreeable. Believe me, I should know.

After Sherrinford, I knew I would not (could not) be fixed. As much as I had realised Molly Hooper was my soulmate (ghastly notion, but accurate summation), lifelong love and ideal companion several years previously _("would you like to have coffee?"),_ I knew that our paths would never cross in the enablement of such an idea. Just because something is true does not mean it should be ever realised. To love is to lose and loss corrupts the logic and fouls up the train of thought. I had chosen my path and I would adhere to its regimen. After all, without rules, there is no point to the rollercoaster that captures you at birth and careers through time, carrying you along until you are dead and gone, and no-one remembers a single syllable you ever uttered into the world.

So.

Eurus is insane.

We escaped from Sherrinford by the skin of our teeth, but I am unable to avoid those resilient thoughts that batter down my defences when the night is long and the spirit is failing…

Eurus is insane, but she is also lost. She is alone. She has always been alone.

She loved me so much (too much) that a companion for me who wasn't her was so utterly abhorrent, it required a deterrent, a repellent, a murder. By the time she had gathered myself and those I loved most together in one room, she was able to show me what loving someone could do now, in 2017. She exposed everything I had hidden away but gave me a gift she could never have realised, understood or planned: she gave me the chance to tell the truth.

And I did.

And I (honestly) expect no more than that,. I told Molly the truth and that is all I can offer, since the lies I have lived have corroded and deadened what feelings I have left. I will work, be a friend, a brother, a godfather, a detective … but I can be little else. That is all the energy I have . So, speak, John Watson. I love you as I love my brother, as I love my god-daughter and my (fairly irritating) landlady, and I will listen, but do not expect a solution, for I know that becoming Spring is accepting the risk of Winter, and I cannot afford another Winter.

"What took you so long?"

"Molly Hooper."

"Hmmm."

He is irritated, righteous, dangerous…

"You love her."

"Yes."

"Oh, great!" Angry. Eyes flashing blue light. He's been keeping this inside for quite some time; he bites out the words quietly, through gritted teeth. "Yes, well, you love someone, _you fucking machine,_ so why are you being a precious arsehole about it!?" Rosie waves happily, small hands grasping like pink starfish, gummily smiling, an incongruous innocence.

We sit for a while and I wait whilst John smiles at his daughter, offers her a flower and places her carefully across her playmat. I catch her eye and envy her the playmat; I am exhausted.

He returns, we look each other in the eye and I must be truthful.

"John, loving Molly Hooper will not give her hope nor improve her life."

"And how the hell can you know that?"

I wait, since he must continue.

"And who _the fuck_ are you to rain down such definitive declarations on a person Sherlock? On her, or your own, sorry self? Correct me if I'm wrong, as you are the sodding master of the last word, but I take my prerogative and _dis-a-gree._ So, what do ya think about that?"

My friend, my most stalwart companion and truest mirror of myself stands, virtually vibrating with indignation at my stubbornness, and it is all I can do not to hold his shoulders and calm his heart.

"John," I say. "You must disregard all concerns, all possible connotations of your happy ever after."

He stares at me, hating every syllable.

"Molly… she will be fine. She will be. She _must_ be."

"Oh?"

"I - I have a deliberate notion regarding Miss Hooper."

"You do?"

"Oh yes, I have. A plan… to make it right. To explain."

And I smile at his lack of comprehension because I do have a plan, and, equally terrifying, I also have thoughts, two thought to be precise.

One: what if I ever see Molly Hooper again?

Two: what if I do not?

"And she'll be ok with your… explanation?"

"She will be. Must be."

And from the playmat, Rosie rolls over onto her stomach, laughing brightly.

 **~x~**

 **V.**

 **I hope you never think of anyone as much as I think about you. ~anon**

My mother's (and my own) childhood home is a depressing small estuary town in the South East; too poorly linked to be industrial yet too ugly to be touristy and just quietly sulking in a quiet corner of England, like the secondary school kid who didn't fit into any of the cliques. Like me really. The wind always blows here, taking smells from the sea and the town across the low-slung houses in the valley, combining the worst of both and catching in the back of your throat until you get used to it. I've been for quite a few breezy walks since I came down three weeks ago. As shitty as it is here, I couldn't stick London and everything it reminds me of a moment longer. Memories old and new were blowing through me on every street corner, every turn into my lab or my living room, and choking me, catching in my throat in quite a different way. I can't afford to think like that anymore, so I spoke to Mike and I just walked out with a small bag and a vague promise to be back when I 'got my head together'. He was very nice about it. I think someone spoke to him about it before I did.

The bedroom I grew up in still has the same curtains (dusky pink frill - eighties chic) and twisty pile carpet and my extensive collection of pencil-topper trolls still resides in my bedside drawer. I'd like to think my mum was sentimental enough to keep this a shrine to me (smartie-pants daughter does well at school and gets herself off to Cambridge and medical school, then onto living the bright lights in old London town) but I suspect it's more down to lessening funds and poor housekeeping. She's been OK really - very few sarky comments and very little in the way of boyfriend-probing - thank God. We eat a polite supper each evening (fish fingers, mash, peas - childhood food too) and generally watch a little telly together before retiring early. It's numb and blank and peaceful, and exactly what I need to have.

And have it I do, for three whole weeks, until the text arrives.

 _A client will not take my advice and continues to trust a man who has wronged her. Can you offer a solution? SH_

I opened it without checking the sender and throw the phone down on the bed, like it was a snake that had bitten me. An hour later (after another near silent supper of mince and dumplings) I approach the phone again with a pounding in my ears and am unable to completely pin-point the emotions jostling for space within as I see three more messages, all from the same sender.

 _Ms Sutherland has been cruelly catfished by her own step-father pretending to be a serious boyfriend. He has, via fake profiles, promises and declarations, persuaded her to be loyal until his visa is issued and they can be together. SH_

 _She refuses to acknowledge my summation of her plight and prefers to wait for him. Her step-father relied on her financially and would have been considerably poorer had she met another, genuine partner and moved out. SH_

 _Her time will be wasted and a liar will set to profit from his dishonesty. What are your thoughts on a suitable course of action? I truly value your opinion. SH_

This I could not have anticipated. Even allowing for Sherlock Holmes' single-tracked mindset, I could not have imagined he would open his first communication with me since our last, devastating phone call in this way. So crassly (intentionally?) ignorant of what that horrifically engineered mortification had done (was still doing) to me, his messages fairly took my breath away and I swiftly turned the phone off, shoving it into a drawer (amongst the trolls. Good.), the same phrase looping through my brain on endless repeat as I pull the duvet up over my head, curling fetally across my single bed: _How dare you! How fucking dare you?_

The rage simmers brightly hour after hour, until the gulls are crying across the harbour's dawn and I can stand it no more. Pulling the hateful thing out I switch it back on, half expecting a tidal wave of increasingly indignant demands, but there are none. So, I read the four messages back several times before typing a reply:

 _You cannot dissuade her. He has built up her trust through a series of behaviours and actions. Chekov said you must trust and believe in people, or life becomes unbearable. It's more unbearable for her to lose her trust in this man right now. You have to respect that and let her come to her own realisations. MH_

His reply came within seconds.

 _You are entirely correct. Thank you Molly. SH_

And I fall asleep within moments.

* * *

 **A/N: I know the stepfather thing has previously been covered in TEH, but I'm using it again here...for reasons. Apologies. :)**

 **Also - sorry about all the bloody swearing (I blame John Watson's army past and Molly's bad-ass medical school background). ;)**


	3. Chapter 3

**VI.**

By the Friday of the seventh week after Sherrinford, I walk in to find Sherlock sitting across the sofa, Rosie on his lap but absolutely no other accessories for case solving about his person. They are staring hard at each other (it's a thing) and she is grinning inanely (which is OK as she is a baby) and gripping his dressing gown collar tightly. The fact that he does not blink makes her laugh all the louder. He looks decidedly more relaxed than I have seen him for months, so I take a chance with my opening words.

"Molly's back at work, apparently. She texted me this morning."

He does not take his eyes from Rosie as he answers me quite matter-of-factly.

"Yes, I know."

I pause in the hanging of my coat.

"Oh?"

"Yes. And Donaldson at the surgery is offering his partnership up to the highest bidder. I suggest you get in there as soon as possible."

"Donaldson?"

"The very same. He hasn't replaced his car this month (always September usually) and his tan is more bottle than Belize. Money troubles, accompanied by pressure from his wife who's finding it increasingly difficult to cope with eldest son's drug issues."

"Freddie? You're kidding! He's acing his termlies at St Paul's."

"No-o." He quirks his mouth at my daughter and she breaks the stare, nuzzling her soft, baby head into his neck. He smiles a genuine grin of triumph (and affection) and turns to me at last. "He's acing forged documentation and selling Spice to the Year 12s. Oh, and I know Molly is back since we spoke on the phone this morning. Look Rosie, he's making that face again."

 **~x~**

 _(That morning)_

The phone rings as I am sipping my first cup of tea of the day. I'm taking the trouble to savour it since being back at the Morgue is set to be quite the marathon after four weeks off duty. I note the caller and contemplate ignoring (but only for the merest moment).

"Hallo Sherlock."

"Molly, I should care for your opinion on a case I am currently engaged on."

"I see."

I wait. I have powerful memories of our last phone call and have attempted to swipe them aside as I swiped to answer this call. It is far from easy.

"Was that a ' _please_ ' I heard?"

"It… it was inferred. I realise the hour is early, but I knew you would be back to work today."

Ah.

"Mycroft, I suppose."

"Not at all. I noticed your postal docket hadn't been emptied last night. When an employee is absent for a long period, it is emptied by clerical staff to avoid a build up."

Last night? I wondered how often Sherlock had been to the Morgue in my absence.

"So," I say, letting his deep, soft, hypnotic voice infiltrate my head once more in ways that seemed impossible last week, yesterday, two minutes since…"So what could I possible offer you in regard to a case? I'm no detective, Sherlock."

"No, you are … something else… someone who sees things."

"More than you?"

"Sometimes."

We pause and I feel how different this is from the last time: his tone, his calmness is a like a balm, a solution to bathe a wound. But there is a wound, and I push this forward, business-like, professional.

"This case?"

"A Mrs St. Clair reported her husband missing after he disappeared in town, leaving traces of blood, as well as items of clothing at a flop house on Swandom Lane."

"And? There must be something else to this to entice you."

"Mmm… indeed. Shortly before the blood and clothing were found, Mrs St Clair had looked up at a window and seen her husband's distressed face looking down at her, then suddenly disappearing as though he'd been pulled away violently. She has not seen him since but fears the worst, since police have found no trace of Mr Neville St. Clair at the flop house, only a huddle of filthy smackheads who made little sense when questioned and have subsequently been arrested."

"You suspect murder?"

"No, I suspect dishonesty, lies and the betrayal of trust."

I continue to listen, since he needs to speak, and his words seem slower, heavier, with a hint melancholy.

"What if I were to tell you that Neville St. Clair had been a keen amateur dramatist, taking many a leading role with the Lee Village Players."

"Actor? You mean he's a liar don't you? He had deceived his wife?"

"I do believe, Molly, that when I visit those three supposed addicts in the cells tomorrow, that one of them will be a man who lives a double life; a man who parades as a beggar by day, whilst affecting a respectful career as an estate agent to his wife and family as is convenient. He earns more from his daily trawl through London markets and tube stations than he could ever gain from his other 'career'. The other men are also beggars, part of an organised group which takes more in a day than you and I combined."

I contemplate for a moment.

"A crime hasn't really been committed though… but … it's not really about the crime, is it Sherlock?"

"A woman wept for a man in my sitting room, but it was for a work of fiction, a facade he had chosen to present to her. He did not trust her enough, and I fear that when I expose him, she will lose him all over again."

I think for so long I hear the line crackle, but he is so patient, until-

"You must let him tell her. You must give her the chance to forgive her husband. If she loves him, she probably forgives him of something a dozen times a day, we all do, all of the time. People make mistakes, Sherlock, constantly; no-one sits up there, basking in perfection, you know that."

He says nothing for a moment, then his voice is back, lighter somehow.

"Thank you Molly," he says.

 **~x~**

 **VII.**

We are sitting opposite each other, moments punctuated by the frazzling hiss of the deep fat fryer each time its load is deposited; bubbling up through boiling oil like some deep sea creature, threatening to emerge. Between us are salt, malt vinegar and an improbable plastic tomato encrusted with previous dribbles of its inner condiment, and arms lean across gingham checked oilcloth and no-frills napkins. The jingle of the bell over the door delivers a regular chime which surely must verify my choice of venue as being one of the more successful chip shops in the east end.

Molly Hooper's dark eyes look up from beneath her lashes as she jostles the paper packets of sugar beside her place mat and instantly, everything I ever said to John Watson, to my brother, to anyone who would listen regarding her is swept away in an avalanche of assention:

 _I love you. I have always loved you. I will always love you._

It is hopeless, since I have yet to confess all that happened at Sherrinford in that coffin room, inside the labyrinthine confines of my sister's mind, and within the chambers of my own heart. I have a plan you see, since we must be closer, and she must understand. Deception is everywhere, sometimes so audacious and so outrageous that you might not see it even when it is staring you in the face, and I need her to see through the deceptions of others so that she may see me; forgive me, trust me again.

"Robert St. Simon's new bride has disappeared."

Her eyes widen (I do realise her weakness for gossip and cherish it).

"Not the Hello! Magazine society wedding of the year? The Honorable Robert St. Simon and Miss Harriet (Hatty) Doran of San Francisco?" She leaves the sugar, interest piqued.

"She disappeared two hours into the wedding breakfast, her bridal gown washed up on the Embankment, beneath Westminster Bridge on Wednesday morning."

Her eyes widen and and I watch the rise of her perfect bird's wing brow and wonder, absently, why she has changed her brand of moisturiser yet again (cost/convenience/persuasive advertising?) and what I should do with my hands as they seem awkward; fidgety and somehow extraneous to my needs.

"The new husband? Did he murder his wife? Was there an argument, or a motive you've uncovered?"

"Your enthusiasm is charming, Molly, and indeed, the percentage of spousal murders far outweigh other varieties, but this is more complex than that. Let me issue with the fruits of my labours these past three days and then you must give me your verdict.

Paparazzi photographs (and some footage from CCTV cameras which I have had the good fortune to gain access to) showed a minor altercation during the outdoor ceremony as the bride, perhaps overcome by nerves, dropped her bouquet as she neared the altar, only for it to be retrieved by a guest and handed back to her. Several bar staff and waiters I questioned noted the bride in tears during the celebratory toasts and subsequent mingling by bride and groom. There was speculation of heated words spoken beside the ice sculpture and surreptitious texting during the speeches, when one would expect a new bride to hang on her new husband's every honeyed word."

Her cheek rests on her hand and her mouth quirks, amused and intrigued and I am so grateful for this familiar speculation of me that I could weep.

"You know an awful lot about this wedding. Were you actually a guest, Sherlock? Was Mycroft?"

I shake my head, gesturing towards my phone.

"Facebook, Instagram, Pinterest etc. etc. Who needs MI6 when everyone uploads every picture, thought and observation without even realising how valuable they can be. Everybody knows everything, but nothing is obvious unless you are looking for it. Thus, by 4.30, she is gone and Lord St. Simon left devastated and suspected of seeing off his bride in the worst possible way. However, the poor man is innocent and has been betrayed."

"By his wife?"

"By circumstance. Hattie Doran had been married before, you see. Her first husband, Captain Frank Moulton had been captured and killed in July 2010, in Afghanistan."

I am pleased to note she is shaking her head.

"Captured, but not killed," declares Molly Hooper, her cheek dimpling and I find it best to place my superfluous hands in my pockets.

"No, and deciding to return on his wife's wedding day, being recognised by her in the church and causing her to wreck both her bouquet and chances of happiness with his Lordship. So, Molly Hooper, I must confront my client with this unwelcome news and must ask you, who is to blame here? The Lord, his Bride or the Missing War Hero? Once again, no crime committed, but a litany of betrayal and unhappiness left in its wake."

She thinks for a moment before speaking.

"You know where Hatty and her first husband are?"

"I do."

"You should give her the chance to speak to Robert St. Simon and apologise. He should see her with her Captain, see how happy they are together; he needs to see it was not so much a rejection of him, but finding something that was lost, something she thought she would never have again." She pauses again, and I find my ridiculous heart is hammering strongly. Hopeless.

"It-it's a very powerful motivator, Sherlock.

 _(I that am lost, oh who will find me?)_

"Something you thought was gone, giving you a second chance."

 _(Who now will find him, why nobody will)_

"Molly, I am sorry, so sorry, about the phone call."

The fryer fizzles again; mundane punctuation to a moment frozen in time, and I teeter on the edge of it.

Then, I see her lovely face soften and her small hands leave the sugar and move infinitessimally across the oilcloth, and I my hands do not feel extraneous any more as I reach across and hold hers within them.

"I know," she says, quietly.

 **~x~**


	4. Chapter 4

**VIII.**

I don't know who's more excited as we move from room to room, seeing the miraculous, phoenix-like renaissance of 221B as it slowly emerges from its pitiful destruction - Rosie or my old (and soon to be new) landlady.

"...and look at that cornicing, John. I always hated that damp patch, and now it's all gone and new again! And you should see the staircase! Brand new hand rail… mahogany, no less!"

Yep, definitely Mrs Hudson.

We duck under loops of cable and exposed boards and Rosie claps her hands when a workman starts drilling nearby.

"Oh, you'd think she'd be startled, wouldn't you dear?"

"She's not easily shocked," I say, hitching my daughter higher as we pass two men with a long roll of carpet tramping up the stairs.

Weeks (even days) ago, I could never have believed the sitting room would ever be a habitable space, but she opens a (half painted) door and here it is. Chairs under dust sheets, flesh-coloured unpainted plaster drying out under heaters, the smell of wood shavings and the spring of new boards beneath our feet. She is over by the newly glazed windows (still labelled and smeary), rustling around under numerous boxes and sheets until she pulls her arm out in triumph.

"It survived the blast untouched John. Mrs Turner's Adam found it over the street, in number 200's hanging basket."

"Bill! Bill!" Shouts Rosie as we all contemplate Sherlock's skull; his companion before me.

"I'll be sure to tell Sherlock," I say, "after I find out how my fifteen month old daughter learnt the name of his human skull."

"No need, dear", she comments blithely, placing it atop the new pine mantle which had yet to be painted. "He'll see it here tonight when he comes over to show Molly around. About six."

"Molly? Well isn't that nice."

"Bill!" shouts Rosie, clapping her hands.

 **~x~**

Sherlock is a little late, but I don't want to wait inside. I just want to be alone with my thoughts. I know he's been sharing these cases over the past few weeks to reach out to me, to show me he's sorry for … what happened. Time has been useful, I think. Sherlock being Sherlock can't explain or ask for forgiveness in a normal, straightforward way, he needs to show me examples of human duplicity and moral uncertainty so that he can deduce the nature of my own moral code. _Idiot._ I don't know why he did ... why he made that phone call, but I do know - genuinely and truthfully - if I didn't have him in my life (in whatever mode it needs to be) I would be as empty as a depressing seaside town which is neither seaside nor town. He's like a missing piece in the puzzle of my life: awkward curves and corners which can be a devil to fit in sometimes, but absolutely and utterly needing to be in there, since they hold the whole picture together.

I sit comfortably on the stoop at 221B Baker Street and let the surprisingly balmy evening breeze ruffle my hair, which is loose and free. A few shoppers stroll past, maybe some commuters looking forward to their dinner, their glass of wine or an embrace from the one who greets them at the end of a tough day in the city. They don't know me, but I smile at them anyway.

Suddenly, one of them in the far distance breaks into a trot and I soon see the darkly dressed man is a police officer, flack vest flapping and hat in hand as he starts to run. Then I see the policeman is, in fact, Sherlock Holmes and he slows his pace considerably as I stand to greet him on his own front doorstep.

"Officer," I smile.

"Molly," pants he, face flushed, radio crackling and curls awry. "Would you like coffee?"

"No," I say, pulling the bottle from my bag. It's still cold. "I'd like wine, as would you."

He smirks, stepping up, inserting his brand new key.

"I never drink on duty," he says.

 **~x~**

It's too warm for a fire in the grate, and Sherlock has shucked off his uniform jacket, removed his clip on tie and shoved his radio under a pile of dust sheets and old _Daily Mirrors_ , presumably left behind by the workmen who seem to be working night and day to finish the job. He's promised to show me around but I decided we should have a drink first, therefore, we are arranged casually across two chairs he's unearthed from a cupboard under the stairs which smell musty and damp, but I don't care because he's telling me another tale as we sip Co-op Chardonnay in the slowly sinking sun glimmering through new windows.

"Hilda Hope has been married to Trelawney Hope, Cabinet Minister and close personal friend of the Prime Minister for twenty three years, yet she was unable to be remotely honest about the life she'd lead as a young girl, the reckless things she'd done in her past."

"Doesn't everyone have a past of some kind?" I say, sipping wine from a stripey mug (I'd forgotten glasses; there's always something) "and does it really matter in this day and age?"

"Yes they do." He looks away briefly, clear eyes dimming with… thoughts, memories? "And sometimes they suppress a past they don't like and remodel it into one that they do; a more acceptable version. This she had done, and when your husband is a cabinet minister, it doesn't pay to have any embarrassing secrets, since blackmailers are always poised, like sentinel spiders to pounce and take your life away."

"How much did the blackmailer want?"

"Not one penny, just the contents of her husband's black box . She stole his key and emptied the box, giving rise to Mycroft's dangerously high blood pressure levels this past fortnight." He shucked off regulation shoes, first one and then the other and propped up his feet on an upturned plasterer's bucket."I suspect the treadmill took a pounding."

"Inside the box?" I am watching him arch his long neck and rotate his shoulders; a man who's had a tough day. And here I am, with the glass of wine…

"A memory stick, supposedly full of delicate correspondence and war-provoking plans, but mere hours after it was given by Mrs Hope to the blackmailer, the latter was conveniently murdered by another wronged victim who has fled the scene and, it must be said, has my blessing. Thus, the lady was now in a quandary: what was she to do about the memory stick? How did she get it back before it could be taken as evidence, causing her husband to possibly loses his reputation and his position? The blackmailer's room is under police surveillance twenty-four hours a day and time was running out."

"So, she was unable to replace it."

"No. She could, and she did."

"You're going to tell me how, aren't you?" I look at him, and he looks right back, and he knows how I feel about him, but it's OK. It really is.

"Yes, Molly Hooper, I am." He puts down his mug and then picks up his camping chair, bringing it directly opposite mine, so that we are as close as comfort allows in a room that suddenly seems very small.

"It was the rug, where the body had fallen. I saw the crime report and because of the delicacy of the situation, Mycroft was reluctant to allow me near it. Spooks all over the place and no circumstance for ' _family connections_ '." He smiles briefly. "Hence, my current attire. As ' _PC Ashdown_ ', I spoke to the officer who had been on duty all the previous week. He was nervous, defensive. When I examined the rug it confirmed my suspicions; there was spilt blood across the rug, but no corresponding bloodstain on the floorboards beneath."

He leans forwards towards me, long, pale fingers steepled beneath his mouth, drawing the eye. My eye. His voice is lower, quieter, lulling me. I decide to put down my mug of wine.

"It makes little sense…"

"Hooper, you are a pathologist. When you have eliminated the impossible…"

I'm looking into his eyes and I'm not seeing the sharp, glitter of a Sherlock Holmes explanation at all…

"Whatever remains…" I murmur.

"However improbable…"

"Still confuses the hell out of me."

His eyes pop wide, expression momentarily befuddled, then offended, then a realisation followed by a sudden snort of laughter. I'm suddenly laughing too, as all the tension leaches from the room like solid carbon dioxide in a wind machine. My chest hurts, I'm breathless and a hiccup away from hysteria before Sherlock is wiping his eyes, standing and walking deliberately over to the brand new mantelpiece where he lifts something I can't quite make out in the half light.

Suddenly he isn't laughing anymore.


	5. Chapter 5

Dust is so plentiful in a newly-plastered and carpentered room, and always so eloquent. The skull has been placed here in the past four...five hours and the envelope placed beneath it at roughly the same time. I lift it, holding it to the light, My name is printed in block capitals in green biro on the front. Pressed hard in, attempting to disguise their normal penmanship, but still obviously a man's hand. Written upwards, towards the top left hand corner, indicating a right-handed man who holds the pen low down but is used to writing in biro, and also in this colour, since several, more usually inked pens are scattered (workmen again) across my new floorboards and have been rejected. This is his pen. Whose job requires him to fill in forms with this colour each day, so that he has it in his pocket?

I rip open the envelope (sniffing: antiseptic soap. Obvious) and pull out a sheet of paper ripped hastily from a spiral bound notepad:

 _Sherlock -_

 _Remember what I said -_

 _It's gone before you know it._

 _Do it._

 _J._

 _PS Check your room._

As I throw open the door to see the lit candles, cushions and throws populating my newly-refurbished bedroom, I sense the movement behind and Molly Hooper is at my back, ignoring any threat of potential intruders and hoping for a better look.

I turn then, facing her for the first time in my life with a fully-open heart.

"Molly," I say, seeing the candlelight play across her exquisite little face and feeling the weight of thirty years crumble away, leaving me light as air…

"I have a sister."

 **~x~**

 **IX.**

 **To love and be loved is to feel the sun from both sides**

 **~David Viscott**

They don't have curtains (they've scarcely managed windows) so dawn filters through with its inevitable optimism before she's even had time to take his latest story around the orbit of her understanding a few more times. But, she's quick, she's bright; she's used to accepting the insanity that orbits around the gravity that is Sherlock Holmes. She gets it.

Molly takes his head across her lap and strokes it gently, assenting her belief, her trust, her forgiveness, her understanding. Candles have long since flickered out in their waxy ennui and the pale dawn casts shadows across them; blue in his dark, springy hair, pale apricot across the bow of his mouth and little dapples of promised sunlight to come across her fingers as they move.

"Eurus...Eurus." She tries the foreign feel of the name in her mouth, tasting it, familiarising. She touches his forehead gently. "She's found her way back in, after so much time being lost… forgotten."

Sherlock shifts, reluctant to lose the soothing perfection that is her touch, but needing to see her eyes in the shifting morning light. "Yes," he says, watching her. "Nothing is hidden forever. Secrets rise to the surface like bloated corpses."

She looks wistful, lost in the familiarity of such an image, and nods.

"Like your recent cases."

"Like all of my cases. Something hidden is exposed and returns to the surface. I have spent my whole life exposing what others have squirrelled away, through shame, fear, hatred… love."

He raises his left hand, splaying wide the fingers in invitation and she obliges, weaving her own small hand in between the gaps, closing and holding as his long fingers curl around.

"Tell me," she murmurs, holding Sherlock's hand and unable to imagine not holding it. "Tell me about Hilda Hope and the second stain. I hate loose endings."

He grins up at her, happily twisting and sitting up, never losing her hand nor her gaze.

"Thank God, so do I."

 **~x~**

"Police Sergeant Harris, when imaginatively questioned, did actually recall a middle-aged and attractive lady appearing at the scene and feeling faint at the sight, precipitating his chivalrous beetling off to find her water. When he returned with said water, she was no longer there, but had ample time to rearrange the rug. Why? Because the blackmailer's strongbox was hidden away in a cubby hole beneath it. She replaced rug, but in her haste, placed it badly so that the stain on the rug was no longer in its original place."

" _Imaginatively questioned_?"

He has the grace to smirk as they both lean against the headboard (So many cushions. Where had they come from?)

"You know my methods. His password was shockingly simplistic and his locker an insult to its name."

"I know your methods sound shady."

And he smiles, as if a great compliment had been bestowed.

"So, she took the memory stick and replaced it in her husband's strongbox. I can't imagine he's unaware of these shenanigans."

"Ah, Molly, marriages are like strongboxes which few outsiders really get to open. Undoubtedly he realises deceptions, old and new, have been perpetrated but as a politician he must know - "

He pauses, turns his head so that she feels the huff of his breath across her mouth just moments before he kisses her. Then, as birds begin their strident morning arpeggio of chirruping, he takes his warm hands to the sides of her face and kisses her again, then again, and when they break, both breathe a little harder.

" - he must know," murmurs Sherlock Holmes, looking into the eyes of the love of his life, "that we all have our diplomatic secrets."

"Not me," she says, tilting her head. "You know everything now. You know exactly how I feel. About you."

"In Sherrinford, speaking to you Molly Hooper, I meant what I said."

"That I wasn't an experiment."

"Yes."

"That we were friends."

"Yes. Oh, yes."

"That you … loved me?"

"Yes. That I love you. That has been my secret for a very long time."

She looks, _really looks_ and she knows the manner in which he just kissed her, and what kisses of that nature really mean.

"You're not lying, are you?"

 _Realisation._

"My strongbox is empty, Molly. I love you. I have always loved you."

She places two hands on his shoulders, cups his face and feels the brightness of the day fill up the room.

"I thought love was a construct -"

" _I_ was the construct. I lied forever, for _nothing_."

With her thumb, Molly touches the tear that has welled up in his left eye and wipes it away, like it would not be tolerated.

"How long?"

"Thirteenth of July, 2010. Four fifteen, in lab number two. We met for approximately four minutes, you thought I was a prick, I fell in love with you. Since then."

"Shit."

Thus, Molly Hooper recalibrates her battered brain (she is a scientist, after all), sets her small shoulders, lifting her chin and looking him right in the eyes, and decides what shall happen next.

"Then we'd better not waste another moment, had we?"

Kneeling on his own bed amidst a conglomeration of ridiculous soft furnishings, Sherlock stares at her.

"Get out of your clothes immediately," she says, shucking off her blouse, her socks, her everything with lightening grace.

"This is _not_ a drill."

 **~x~**

 **X.**

He's typing furiously at the laptop as I enter. The clinic has been ridiculous and I'm exhausted, missing my daughter and heartily sick of sickness. Throwing my coat under the stairs, I almost weep with gratitude to see a steaming cup of tea, as freshly poured as it is possible to be without him actually having the pot in his hand, awaiting me on the hall stand.

"Rough day," Sherlock Holmes informs me. He is not asking.

"The shittest," I return, throwing myself onto the sofa. "Made worse by Donaldson being off."

"That son of his."

"You don't have to always be the biggest smartarse in the room."

"And yet, I usually am."

He doesn't look up but I see the quirk of his smile, the gleam in his eye and I sip my tea, gingerly. I watch him a second longer, then:

"You look-"

"Stop it, John."

"What?"

"I hate it when you try to deduce me."

"Yeah, well… maybe cut down on that yourself? Just an idea"

The typing continues, emails pinging off to various parties left right and centre and I quietly drink my tea, listening out for Rosie, who is due to wake up soon. Eventually, he slows a little but still doesn't look at me, simply saying:

"Too many cushions, John."

"Oh?"

"And blankets. I am neither a Bedouin Tribesman nor a boy scout."

A pause.

"I'm just glad I didn't have to lock you up together in a secure facility."

He stops typing.

"Too soon?" I am apologetic. I have become so much tougher these days.

"A bit."

"Sorry. Mary used to soften me more than I realised."

Sherlock turns and looks at me, and I can't catch his eye.

"So." I say.

"So." he replies.

"How did your plan go?"

"My plan?"

"Yes. The one where you make it all OK with Molly. Remember? The time you told me to forget _'all connotations of a happy ever after'."_

He has the good grace to colour a little at that.

"In a world where dishonesty curls its way into every aspect of our daily lives and the desire to preserve our own needs often colours and misguides the judgements we make, I imagined I was wise enough to subjugate my feelings, my emotions, my heart, into a conveniently placed strongbox, where they could not influence me, seduce me or distract me from my eternal, exhausting quest for uncovering the truth. Unfortunately, John, I lost the key and I lost sight of what actually matters in this tattered, beleaguered, world of ours."

I smile.

"You've been a _magnificent_ arsehole many times, Sherlock, but your strong box was pretty poorly locked and it was never big enough to contain a heart as big as yours. You have _always_ cared - look at me, Mary, Mrs Hudson, Rosie… even Irene and that lunatic brother of yours. How did you imagine you'd keep the lid closed on your love for Molly?"

I dunno how, exactly, but I am suddenly holding him, embracing him and I see Mary, so proud of what we are now, on the periphery of it all.

"Love," says Sherlock Holmes, as we sit side by side, Rosie stomping around my little house with the determination of a well-fed and well-rested child, "is stronger than it appears."

I nod in assent. Truthfully, we certainly needed a beer, and I clink bottles with him, to seal such wisdom.

"She's forgiven you."

"Yes."

"She still loves you, doesn't she?"

"Yes."

"Jesus, you're smug when you've had sex."

He actually laughs and I have to smile too.

"Welcome to the human race, Sherlock Holmes. You're gonna love it here."

And we clink, a toast to all of it.

 **THE END**

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you to everyone who read and followed (especially those who were kind enough to let me know what they thought :))**

 **The story of Lady Hilda Hope comes from The Adventure of The Second Stain, by ACD (one of Sir Arthur's top ten, I'm lead to believe!)**

 **:)**


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